Before I can say something stupid, the doorbell rings.
Pizza.
The moment pops, just like that.
We move to the small table by the window, knees brushing occasionally, the contact electric every single time. We talk about everything except what we’re doing.
She tells me about a disastrous statistics class she nearly failed.
I tell her about the first time I ever pitched in a real stadium and nearly puked from nerves.
“You don’t strike me as someone who gets nervous on the field,” she says.
I laugh. “I get nervous all the time. I just don’t let people see it.”
She studies me, eyes thoughtful. “I see it.”
“How?”
“You can hide a lot of things from people,” she says softly. “But you can’t hide what’s in your eyes. They’re the door to the soul. I can see everything in your eyes.”
Fuck.
“What do you see in them now?” I ask, knowing exactly how dangerous that question is and not caring.
“Want,” she says. “Need. Arousal.”
She’s not wrong.
“Everything I see in yours,” I reply.
The pizza goes cold. The wine warms. Neither of us notices.
She blushes, then reaches across the table, her fingers wrapping around mine.
I stand slowly, heart pounding, blood nowhere near my brain.
“Would you like to see the rest of my apartment?” I ask.
It’s a childish line. A transparent one. And I don’t have it in me to do better.
She rises, that small, sexy grin playing on her lips.
“I’d love to see it all.”
Fuck me.
THIRTEEN
Amelia
The bedroom door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud in the quiet.
My heart is pounding so hard I swear it’s echoing off the walls. My stomach is swimming, nerves and anticipation tangling together until I don’t know which one is winning. I’ve never felt excitement like this. It’s sharp and electric and terrifying all at once.
Neither of us says a word.
Wilder’s hand comes to my waist, firm and sure, and in one smooth motion he presses me back against the door. His mouth crashes down on mine. It’s hard, demanding, like he’s been holding himself back for far too long.
